


I have been changing

by toomuchpink



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, And they were roommates!!, FUCK DOM COBB RIGHTS, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Self-Discovery, and I know nothing about art so this is fun, arthur learns a thing or two about himself, dom cobb isn't here because I said, it's all about the art, it's not really about that, well at least I hope it's humorous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 06:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20304754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchpink/pseuds/toomuchpink
Summary: Arthur doesn't know much about his college roommate. But this, like many other things in life, is subject to change.





	I have been changing

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my Inception Big Bang 2019 fic! This features some absolutely stunning art from the wonderful Salt (you can find them @ffc1cb on tumblr). They've been so lovely to work with and I'm sure the art will blow you away as much as it blew me away. The other major mention has to go to @fairytalegay on tumblr, who let me develop their original fic idea into something new. Thank you so much! Be sure to check their stuff out! 
> 
> Now for the other thanks yous. Thank you to the mods of this event for allowing me to enter late and being so flexible with the deadline. I've had so much fun. And another massive thank you to everyone on the You're waiting for a train server. You all have been so supportive and I genuinely couldn't have done this without any of you. Thank you also for putting up with me talking about this fic all the time! I hope I wasn't too annoying. <3 A massive thank you goes to Hana (@blackwatchandromeda) for being super supportive and positive throughout this process.
> 
> This is rough and ugly but hey, this is my second completed work and I did it for fun not for perfection. I chose a topic that I know little to nothing about (art), so a lot of the descriptions will be a bit wack. Feel free to use your imagination while reading and enjoy!

Here are the things Arthur knows about his college roommate. His name is Eames, he’s British and he’s majoring in fine art. He sleeps in while Arthur goes to class and is never in the dorm in the evening. He sticks sketches on the wall and leaves smudges on paint on the furniture. He’s pretty tidy, but has a penchant for hideous patterned shirts which he often leaves on the back of his chair. Arthur never catches him between when he sleeps and wakes so despite it being the beginning November they have exchanged no more than four sentences. Apparently today is different. Eames shoves the door open and tosses his art portfolio on his bed. It lands with a dull thud. Arthur looks up from his laptop.

“Who the fuck decided to put the art department on the other side of campus?” he asks no one in particular. Arthur elects to ignore him and returns to researching bolt-in-shear stress, which is genuinely the dullest thing in the world. Sounds of movement come from Eames’ side of the room and Arthur ignores those too. 

“Well, at least I’m not you,” Eames says matter-of-factly, forcing Arthur to turn and look at him. He’s lying on his front shirtless, snacking on a granola bar. His purple monstrosity of a shirt has been discarded on the floor. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You’re studying engineering.” 

“And?”

“I would find it frustrating if I was learning all that theory for something that I couldn’t make myself,” he says. Arthur considers the statement and thinks about disagreeing. It’s on the tip of his tongue to say no. Figuring out how to create a structure that will stand the test of time is enough, and theory is the way to do it. Structures like the Pyramids and the Parthenon are why he chose engineering. Even with all of modern technology at their fingertips no one can understand how they were built. And they’re still here. Unfortunately, Eames is right. It is frustrating and it’s unbelievably boring. In the end, Arthur just shrugs.

“People don’t become engineers to build things,” he says. Eames raises an eyebrow, clearly recognising how absurd the statement is. His gaze locks his gaze with Arthur’s. It’s piercing and uncomfortably omniscient.

“So what  _ are  _ you studying engineering for?” he asks. The question hits a little too close to home. 

“None of your business,” Arthur snaps, immediately feeling rude afterwards. His brows ease from the frown they’ve furrowed themselves into. Eames looks chastised enough to drop the line of conversation, but he then opens his mouth again. 

“My friend, Yusuf, and I are doing a project and we need someone to model for a photoshoot. Would you do it?” His expression is inscrutable, but a strange light is dancing behind his eyes. The change in demeanour is abrupt and confusing. 

Arthur finds himself saying yes. 

#

The next week they make the trek to the art department together, hands stuffed into their pockets and shoulders braced against the wind. After they talked, Eames went back to sleeping during the day and doing god knows what during the night so they haven’t spoken to each other since. They make substanceless small talk for some of the way during which Arthur learns that Eames has the archetypal British affinity for discussing the weather. It quickly dwindles to nothing, leaving them to walk in silence. The art department emerges when they turn a corner on the tree lined path. It’s a gothic church with sharp spires and soaring stained glass arches. Ivy winds around the grey stone, sprawling effortlessly over the rooftops and melding the imposing edifice into the surrounding greenery. 

“You like it,” Eames says, taking in Arthur’s awestruck expression. 

He can feel the tips of his ears turning pink.“It’s beautiful,” he replies simply. 

The interior houses a largely empty library. Beams of light scatter through the windows casting iridescent patterns on the floor, across the desks and onto the bookcases. They trail along an isle and he admires the golden lettering on the spines of a section of books. The descent down the spiral staircase into the belly of the church reveals a network of corridors. Eames steps are conspicuously silent against the paved stone where his echo with every stride. 

The studio is spacious and simple, with a white background paper roll against one wall and a mac in the opposite corner. Yusuf is fiddling with the set up of various lights when they enter and gives them each a distracted nod. Eames sits him down on a beanbag, kneels in front of him and squeezes out some foundation onto the back of his hand. It’s like he used sleight of hand because Arthur didn’t notice him remove anything from his bag.

“Your skin is so smooth,” he says, sounding almost wondrous as he starts to apply it to his face. He’s leaning in close enough that Arthur can see the individual details of his face. From the sharp line of his jaw and the slope of his nose to the way the colour of his eyes shifts between blue, grey and green depending on how the light hits them. 

“So, what’s the project about?” Arthur asks, realising that he’s been staring for far too long. 

“It’s a piece on the relationship between the subconscious mind and creativity,” Eames says as he continues to apply the foundation with deft swipes. He doesn’t seem to have noticed the attention Arthur has been giving him and it’s just as well, because Arthur would probably die on the spot if he mentioned it.“We’re trying to document what the moment when you first create something looks like. Except it’s not exactly creation since you almost discover the idea as you create it.” 

“Like dreams,” Arthur says absently. Eames hand stops over his left cheek then he leans back, gesturing for him to elaborate. Arthur clears his throat awkwardly and continues. “When you dream you’re the one making the locations and people up, but you still discover them anyway.” The explanation is clunky, inelegant, unrefined. He wants to take it back almost immediately. 

Eames’ expression is unreadable. “Do you mind if we run with that?” he says finally.

“Yeah, sure,” Arthur replies. When Eames has finished with the foundation, he hands him over to Yusuf who begins the surprisingly long process of repositioning the lighting to his liking with Arthur against the background. Arthur resists the strong urge to check his watch. He’s lucky that he did all his assignments for the next two days in advance, which was a fluke for sure. 

“Just take your time why don’t you, Yusuf,” Eames says under his breath. 

“Haha bloody ha,” he retorts, “I’m done anyway.” 

Eames passes Arthur a moleskine notebook and a pencil. “Write or draw whatever you like. Just make sure you’re creating something new and Yusuf will do all the rest.” He opens the notebook, toying with the pencil between his fingers. No pressure. Just come up with something entirely new with two people watching. With the heat of the lights and the feeling of Eames and Yusuf observing it’s difficult to put pencil to paper. It’s a paradox. How do you force inspiration?  _ A paradox _ , he thinks. Like the Penrose steps. Something that seems reasonable from one angle but from another perspective reveals a completely different story. And just like that an idea takes root. He sketches a tower, the kind that would be found as part of a castle and allows the Penrose steps to twist round and round. He’s no artist but the flow is organic and soon enough the sketch takes on a spirit of its own. The rest bursts forth like a river overwhelming a dam, swift and powerful but still carrying the essence of the source. 

“Okay,” Yusuf says, interrupting him mid stroke, “I think we have enough material to work with for now.” Arthur looks up in shock. He hadn’t even noticed Yusuf taking photos. Eames picks up his moleskine.

“You’re a fan of Escher?” he asks, perusing the contents with interest.

Arthur plucks the moleskine from his fingers. “I like impossible shapes.” 

#

Yusuf’s photos pop up in his email inbox about a week later and Arthur is pleasantly surprised with how well they came out. It’s a collection of portrait photographs. Yusuf captured him mid thought in each shot. His eyes are never directly focused on the lens, but instead are always looking somewhere slightly off-centre. When Eames comes back to the dorm, he blue-tacks printed versions of the photos to the wall. 

“Oh my god,” Arthur says, “Why are you doing that?”

“Hm?” Eames pauses to look at the arrangement of the images and then begins to swap them around. 

“It’s going to look like I’m in love with myself!” Arthur exclaims. 

Eames laughs and then, content with the way the collage looks, flops onto his bed. “It’s on my side of the room. Don’t worry, Arthur. If anything it’ll look like  _ I’m _ the one who’s obsessed with you.” 

Arthur fails to see how that is any better than the previous option, but doesn’t bother commenting. “Have you decided what you’re going to do with them?” 

“Not exactly. We’ve been given quite a lot of leeway with this assignment so I’m at a bit of a loss,” Eames says, scratching his head sheepishly. On anyone else the gesture would come across as cartoonish, but somehow on him it somehow ends up being endearing. “But I know it’s going it be mixed media. I’m going to paint over the canvases once we’ve printed them.”

Arthur grabs a pencil and the moleskine Eames gave him from his desk and opens it on the next available blank page. “If you’re going to use the concept of dreams while keeping your original idea then…” He taps the pencil against the page thoughtfully. “Maybe do something like this?” He scribbles on the page and presents it to Eames. “Anything you paint around my head can represent the dream and then the image itself is everything outside of the dream.”

He blinks. “You are,” he says, “Full of amazing ideas. Did you know that?” Arthur just smiles. 

#

The problem with the art department is that everything important is in the basement (or as Arthur would call it, the crypt. It certainly is eerie enough). For the next photoshoot Eames asks him to meet him there, which would be fine if he could remember the way through the basement to the studio. He doesn’t. It’s understandable really because each corridor looks exactly the same. Rather than getting even more lost, he knocks on the nearest door. 

“Come in,'' says a muffled voice. Arthur opens it to reveal a figure hunched over a desk, slightly hidden behind the towers of books piled up on one another. The room is tiny and the majority of the floor space is taken up by them. He hesitantly navigates through the room and stands by the desk. 

She lifts her head, breaking her focus on the tablet in front of her and looks him up and down. “You’re lost,” she says definitively. 

“Yeah, I—” Arthur pauses. “How could you tell?”

“You don’t look like you’re from this department and you’re in my office. You’re looking for a photography studio right? A lot of people make a wrong turn and end up here instead.” She extends her hand to shake. “I’m Ariadne by the way.” 

“Arthur.” Her small frame is at odds with the strength of her grip. “I hope I haven’t don’t disturbed you too much.”

She scoffs. “If you can’t tell,” she says, gesturing to the books all around them, “I need a break from work anyway, so your interruption is welcome.” 

“What are you studying?” 

“Officially, I’m doing a masters in architecture, but I spend a lot of my free time doing interior design and some design tech as well.”

“Interior design,” Arthur repeats. 

“Yes.” 

His brain feels like it’s going at a hundred miles a minute. Ariadne looks like she wants to ask if he’s okay. And suddenly his train of thought halts with jarring clarity. “This is going to sound completely crazy and you’re probably too busy for this, but will you come with me to the shoot?” 

Not a minute later they stumble into the studio together, a little short of breath. Arthur doesn’t mind admitting he gets overly eager from time to time, but he’s also late, which is something he definitely cannot stand. Eames is sitting cross legged on the desk, turning the pages of a sketchbook and Yusuf is playing around with the lighting once again. 

“Good evening, Arthur,” Eames says, voice only the tiniest bit sardonic. It would be easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention. Arthur is learning to look for the details when it comes to Eames.

“I know I’m late and I’m sorry,” he says as placatingly as he can, “But I think I know what we should do for the project. You said that you get a room in a local art gallery right? We can make this whole thing into performance art.” The response he gets is lukewarm at best, arctic at the worst. 

“It can be like one of those obnoxious pieces people always used to do in high school,” Ariadne adds cheerfully. Yusuf looks horrified, like he’s been personally scarred by an experience that he’s tried to repress. 

“Who are you?” Eames asks her, not quite managing to mask his mounting scepticism. 

“I’m Ariadne.” Her voice doesn’t lose any of it’s glee and Arthur is starting to think that she’s finding the whole situation entirely too amusing. 

Arthur decides to explain before Ariadne turns them off the idea entirely. “It sounds bad—”

“Bad is an understatement!” Yusuf cuts in, “Do you know how much film I’ve wasted on performance art? I spent weeks, literal weeks, in a dark room for performance art. I had to see an opthamologist afterwards!”

“Hear me out,” Arthur says, raising his hands, “Put a bed in the middle of the room and have someone pretend to sleep in the bed, and then turn the room into the dream. Like everything he’s thinking is being broadcasted so that the audience is effectively looking into his head.” 

Yusuf’s eyes widen and he looks at Eames. “Where do you find people like this?” Then turning to Arthur he says, “That idea isn’t completely awful,” he concedes, “But I’m not going to use that much film again.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Arthur says. 

There’s an undercurrent of excitement building in the room, a low hum that spreads from person to person as they start to think of the possibilities. Eames curls and unrolls the edge of a page he’s holding unthinkingly. “There’s a lot of scope for interplay between non-naturalism and naturalism if we go with this. We could create a multisensory experience for the audience that mimics the feeling of dreaming.” 

“This is great and all but how exactly does this involve me?” Ariadne asks. 

“You’re an architect, aren’t you?” Arthur says, “You’re going to design the dream.”

#

When Arthur opens skype on Christmas Eve, he doesn’t actually expect Eames to pick up even though they prearranged the call. His family doesn’t celebrate Christmas, but he knows it’s an important holiday for others. Most of the planning has already been done. He used the project as an excuse to avoid his own engineering assignments, strategically calling it a ‘break’ instead of procrastination. The call barely rings for five seconds before Eames picks up. He’s in what Arthur assumes to be his bedroom. Just like their dorm, there are sketches all over, but he’s also painted directly on the walls. His painting has all the blurriness of Impressionism amalgamated with the vivid colour palette of Fauvism. But there’s something even more striking right in front of Arthur’s eyes. 

“That is literally the ugliest party hat I have ever seen,” he blurts out. 

Eames chokes on a laugh and then pulls the hat off. “Nice to see you too, darling. I have missed your insults dearly.” 

“Piss off.” 

He wipes a fake tear from his eyes and sniffs. “I’ve done it,” he says, “You’re speaking like a true Englishman.” Eames is a lucky man. If he were there in person, Arthur would have thrown something at him. Nothing too dangerous. Maybe just a large eraser. It’s a stark reminder of how much time they’re spending with each other. Arthur’s quickly learning to parse his behaviour, a task more difficult than it seems. His gregarious nature contradicts his tendency to be aloof and it all comes together to make Eames’ enigmatic personality.

“I think I’ve found a way to cover all the senses,” Arthur says, hastily breaking the silence that has settled over them. His moleskine is open in front of him and he continues to refer to it while he talks to Eames. “Sight and touch will obviously be covered by the stuff you and Yusuf are doing. Smell and taste can be combined, but I’ve never had a dream smell or taste a particular way. So maybe we could omit those?” He trails off. Eames is openly gazing at him.“What?” Arthur can feel a blush spreading across his cheekbones. 

Eames shakes his head, smiling fondly. “Nothing. Go on.”

“That leaves just hearing. I spoke to a friend from the music department and he said he can write something for us.” 

Eames nods solemnly. “Does he compose in his dreams?” 

“No? I don’t know,” Arthur gives him an incredulous look, “Are you kidding?” 

“I am dead serious, darling,” he says, the grin on his face belying the very words he just said, “You’re the one who decided this project should be about dreams.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur says, barely fighting a smile, “He’s doing it for free. Be more appreciative.”

Eames sticks out his tongue in response. “He gets extra credit for it doesn’t he?” 

Arthur leans back in his chair in lieu of an answer and Eames’ mouth twists into a knowing smirk. “Stop being so fucking smug,” Arthur says just as his sister, Hannah, kicks open the door. It slams against the wall with a bang. He turns to fix her with a glare. “You couldn’t knock?” 

“No, I couldn’t,” she says, “I am actually allergic to knocking. It would have killed me.” Arthur rolls his eyes. “Who’s this?” she asks, leaning over his shoulder and waving at the screen. 

“I’m Eames,” he says, beaming from ear to ear, “You didn’t tell me you had a sister, Arthur. She looks just like you!” 

“That’s because Hannah is annoying and irrelevant and can’t mind her own business,” Arthur replies, deadpan. Hannah kicks the leg of his chair, tipping him forward and Eames bursts into laughter. It sounds more like he’s wheezing than laughing. 

“I’d love to stay and chat Eames, but I only came to tell Arthur that he has to be down for dinner in half an hour,” Hannah says.

“That’s alright, Hannah. It was lovely meeting you,” he replies. She salutes the camera and leaves the room. “We’ve been living with each other for months and I didn’t even know you had a sister.”

“For good reason clearly,” Arthur says under his breath, “You have siblings right?”

Eames nods. “Two. James and Emily. You can meet them. Turnabout is fair play and all that.” 

“If you want?” Arthur says, feigning a lack of interest. Eames doesn’t call him out on it, but he definitely notices the falsehood. He gets up, pulls his bedroom door open and yells both his siblings’ names. Emily comes barrelling through the doorway first with unexpected rapidity given her willowy stature. 

“This better be good. Dad was about to get into Mum’s wedding dress.” It’s a testament to Arthur’s interactions with Eames that he doesn’t find that sentence surprising. 

“I’ve got something infinitely better, sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart?” Her eyes narrow fractionally, a gesture that is unmistakably reminiscent of her brother. “You’re lying. You’re going to make me miss it for nothing!”

“Arthur is very far from being nothing, Emmy.” He tugs on her arm so her face comes into frame. Up close she looks nothing like her brother. The only feature they share in common is their sandy brown hair. 

“Hi, Arthur. He’s cute.” she says, squinting at the screen. She gives Eames an approving look. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Eames blinks and there’s a moment of stilted silence. “No.” 

“Why the hell am I here then?”

“Fine,” he says with a put upon sigh. “Piss off if you like.” She kisses the top of his head and bounds out of the room, throwing a cheeky wink over her shoulder. “Emmy can be a bit of a menace sometimes,” he says with an affectionate smile. “What were you going to say before your sister came in?” 

Arthur takes a moment to recollect his thoughts. “Oh. I don’t really have anything to add. But I’ve been meaning to ask, what exactly are you planning to do with Yusuf’s prints?”

Eames taps the side of his nose and winks. “You’ll have to wait and see.” He looks over his shoulder. Arthur can’t see on screen, but he presumes someone is at the door. 

“I have to go,” he says, hurriedly and somewhat regretfully, “But have a wonderful rest of your holiday, darling.” With that he hangs up. 

#

When they get back from break, between Ariadne’s thesis, the project and Arthur catching up on his own work none of them have time to meet, which leads to him half jokingly suggesting that they meet at four in the morning. They’re all desperate enough to agree. Arthur can’t help but feel like a high school student sneaking out to head to a party. When they get to the art department, Eames produces a lock pick from his pocket and starts wiggling it in the keyhole. He leans close as if listening for something and then there’s a snick. “Aha!” he exclaims triumphantly, turning the handle and opening the door. 

“Should I be concerned that you know how to do that?” Arthur asks.

“Maybe,” he replies, shrugging, “But then there’s other things I can do that are a lot more concerning so I guess you’ll have to pick your battles.” They navigate the building by the light of their phone torches until they reach the studio, Arthur steadfastly ignoring how creepy the church looks by night. They open the door to find Ariadne sitting alone in the dark. She swivels round dramatically in the chair. 

“Welcome, my brethren,” she says, gesticulating two bottles generously, “I bring tidings of great joy.” 

“How,” Arthur asks, switching on a softbox light, “did you get in?”

“When you’re as petite as I am, you can fit into all sorts of tight spaces.” 

Arthur groans. “I’m going to have to drink quite a bit to unhear that,” Eames says, shaking his head. He grabs one of the bottles and inspects the label, “Aren’t you too young to be purchasing alcohol?” Ariadne refuses to take the bait and just rolls her eyes. Eames takes a swig and passes the bottle Arthur’s way. It’s whiskey. Not Arthur’s drink of choice but he’s hardly going to be picky when he’s not the one paying. It warms his throat a little on the way down. He passes the drink back to Ariadne and takes a seat on a beanbag next to Eames. 

“Aren’t we meant to be working,” he says, giving Ariadne an accusatory look. 

She waves a hand. “There really isn’t anything else to do. Yusuf just wants more photos because he’s greedy.” 

“Well, there are worse things to be greedy about I suppose.”

Eames has rolled over so he’s lying with his face mashed into the beanbag. “We’ve been back for two weeks and it feels like it’s been two months,” he laments, voice muffled. 

“Tell me about it,” Ariadne agrees. 

The whiskey ends up back in Arthur’s hands. He takes a liberal drink and steels himself for what he’s about to say. “I thought that maybe a break from college would make me like engineering again, but it’s even worse than before. I fucking hate it.” The words come tumbling out of his mouth unbidden, a secret he had buried forcing its way out of his chest. 

He feels Eanes stiffen with shock next to him. Ariadne, on the other hand, is completely unperturbed. 

“Oh my god,” she yells, “He finally said it! You think we didn’t know already? Why else would you voluntarily be doing this project?” Arthur supposes what she says is true. 

When Yusuf comes through the door and surveys the scene, camera slung around his neck, the bottles have made several rounds and are tellingly empty. Ariadne is dangling precariously over the arm of her chair. Arthur is leaning against Eames’ shoulder. His body is just so warm. 

“What happened to working?” Yusuf asks. 

“What is with you guys,” Ariadne moans, “You’re all work work work work yadah yadah.” 

“If you’re so concerned,” Eames says, “I have an idea.” He tiptoes off to the other side of the room and returns with paints in an assortment of colours. “Darling?”

“Mm?” Arthur’s head is pleasantly fuzzy. 

“May I paint your back?” If Arthur were a little more sober or if Eames’ voice didn’t sound so hopeful, maybe he would have said no. But as it stands the liquid courage is enough to have him strip off his shirt immediately. Ariadne wolf whistles while Eames kneels by his side and rolls him over. Arthur lets out a strangled yelp when fingers caress his back, cold with paint. 

“Don’t you have any paint brushes?” he asks incredulously. 

“What for?” Eames asks, sounding genuinely confused. Maybe he’s a little more tipsy than his demeanour initially suggested. 

“Oh, I don’t know. To paint on my back with?” 

“Not necessary,” he replies with absolute certainty. 

“Brushes are for losers!” Ariadne hollers, leaning so far over her chair that she nearly falls off. Yusuf grimaces and removes the bottle from her grip. Eames continues to make confident strokes along the length of his back. The heat of his fingers diffuses cool of the paint. Each point of contact sends sparks up Arthur’s spine. He continues like this, delicate presses swirling in endless loops, for what feels like hours, but soon enough he announces that he’s finished. 

“Holy shit,” Yusuf says. He grabs his camera from the table he left it on and soon is snapping away at his back. Present Arthur decides that Future Arthur can deal with the embarrassment of having evidence of the night. By the time Yusuf’s finished, Ariadne is a snoring puddle on the floor. Eames prods her cheek gently and, when she doesn’t stir, pokes her with increasing force. Yusuf pulls his arm away. “If you do that any harder, you might as well punch her,” he says. “I’m going to get her home.” It doesn’t cross Arthur’s mind to ask how he knows the way to her house as he hoists her up. 

She wakes, eyelashes fluttering. “We’re done?” she asks. 

“Yes,” he says, “And  _ you  _ are going home.” He secures his grip on her and they stagger out of the room. Eames picks up on Arthur’s concerned expression.

“They’ll be alright,” he says. He’s looking at Arthur in that way again, with that gaze that makes him feel completely seen and wholly known. Arthur’s heart thrums in his chest, quickening its pace until he feels wild with anticipation. And before he can process what’s happening, Eames leans in to press the softest of kisses against his lips. 

“Oh,” Arthur says. He searches Eames face, briefly fascinated by the way the light catches his irises and pulls him in closer, letting their lips meet again. His lips part on a small sigh and it deepens. Any train of thought he might have had is reduced to a quiet hum, making each sensation amplified, be it the heat radiating from Eames’ body or the soft curl of his fingertips as he grips his neck. Eames’ lips feel impossibly soft in counterpoint to the faint sting of his stubble, the touch of his hand a grounding warmth against Arthur’s chest. Loose limbed, he loops his arms around Eames’ neck and tangles his fingers into his hair. He clasps his hand tight and doesn’t let go.

#

The next day, Arthur meets a nervous Ariadne at the entrance of the gallery. She’s playing with the ends of her paisley scarf with a worried frown on her face, but her expression softens when she spots him. “Hey, Arthur,” she says, looping her elbow through his as they enter. 

“You done setting up?” he asks, patently ignoring the way his mind seems to scream  _ Eames!  _ with every step.

“Almost. I’m going to wait for Yusuf to arrive first before doing anything with the lighting.” 

“That’s probably for the best,” Arthur says with a quirk of his lips. Yusuf’s particular nature when it comes to lighting is quickly becoming the stuff of legend between them. “Shouldn’t I have come later then?”

“I wanted you to be the first one to see it,” Ariadne replies, shrugging, “You did put it all together.” Arthur almost disagrees, because it’s not like he’s the one who created the art, but that’s not what she said. They arrive at the archway to their room and Ariadne starts unlacing her boots.

“Is there a reason you’re taking off your shoes?” he asks. 

“You’ll see why when you get inside.” Ariadne reaches for the curtain that conceals the room and then pauses, visibly excited. “Are you ready?” Arthur rolls his eyes and pulls it aside himself. 

He’s instantly stunned into silence. 

“I know!” Ariadne says, bouncing on her heels. From where the bedframe melts into the floor at the centre of the room colour bursts, spilling across the floor in a mandala pattern and spiralling up the walls. When Arthur crouches to look closer, he realises that the floor has been painted by painstakingly by hand. Yusuf’s canvases hang on the walls at odd angles. Each one has been painted over and the textures of the fabrics on them jump out, begging to be touched. It’s dazzling. There’s so much to take in that Arthur feels like he’s being bombarded with sensations but at the same time it’s all oddly familiar, because he helped to make this happen. And this isn’t even all of it. Saito still has to set up the music and Yusuf the lights. And of course, Arthur has to get into the bed. 

“Not bad right?” Ariadne says. He can’t help but agree. 

#

The performance itself could be described as anticlimactic. At least it is for Arthur since he gets to sleep through it. After a full week of staying up late to get everything finished he figures he deserves it. He sleeps undisturbed and for the first time in weeks wakes up feeling refreshed instead of painfully groggy. The reception is already packed when Arthur arrives. It’s an eclectic mix of faculty members, students and their families. He scans the crowd for Eames, catching sight of Ariadne first. “How was it?” he asks once he wades his way through the crowd to meet her. 

“It was really good. I was only there for a little while, but people seemed to like it. Eames is looking for you by the way.” 

“Do you know where he is?” 

She gestures vaguely to the room at large. “Somewhere in here.” Arthur bites down a sarcastic response. Yusuf comes over clutching a handful of canapes. Bits of pastry crumble through his fingers leaving a trail and he receives a grossed out look from Ariadne. 

“Don’t look at me like that! It’s free food. I’m a student!” he says. Ariadne looks like she’s two seconds away from launching into another tirade about how much poorer she is as a masters’ student and how undergrads don’t know how lucky they are so Arthur nips the impending argument in the bud. 

“Have you seen Eames?” he asks. 

“He was with Saito about five minutes ago,” Yusuf says distractedly, looking over his shoulder. His eyes widen comically. “Oh shit. It’s my mother. I was never here.” He shoves the canapes in his mouth and scuttles away. 

Saito is on the fringes of the room in conversation with one of the professors. He notices Arthur out of the corner of his eye and smoothly introduces them. Professor Stephen Miles is head of the psychology department. “It’s impressive,” he says, adjusting his glasses, “How in line with psychological understanding of dreams your art was.” Arthur flushes and thanks him.“Saito here informs me that you are studying general engineering,” Arthur nods. “Perhaps you should consider something more unconventional.” There’s a twinkle in his eye. He bids both him and Saito farewell before slipping into the crowd and disappearing. 

“Congratulations,” Saito says. 

“Congrats to you too,” Arthur rejoins, “You were part of it as well.”

Saito’s mouth forms a complicated smile, like he’s about to dispute that claim. “I believe you’re looking for Eames.” He tips his head towards the main entrance. Arthur, well used to Saito’s particular brand of omniscience, just follows his line of sight. Walking with intent makes it easy to part the crowd and as soon as he gets close to Eames, Arthur grabs him and drags him out into the hallway. He presses him against the wall and kisses him. Hard. Eames makes a strangled sound into his mouth and then melts into it. Time quickly becomes lost to them, but the kiss slows and they break apart, Arthur clutching Eames’ shirt in his fists. 

“Hello, Arthur,” he says.

“When the fuck were you going to tell me that you’re a genius?” 

“It’s hardly geni—”

“Shut up,” he says firmly, “You’re fucking amazing.”

“I could say the same for you, darling.” Arthur rolls his eyes dismissively. “I’m being serious,” Eames says. “And to think I thought of you as a stick in the mud.”

“For studying engineering?” Arthur replies, lifting an eyebrow. 

Eames shakes his head. “Because you so obviously hated it and were sleepwalking into your own misery whilst pretending you loved what you were doing all along.” The description is apt. “I met too many people like that in England. It was stifling. So I left and came here.”

“What changed?” 

“Me. The way I see things. You stayed the same.”

“I wouldn’t agree with that,” Arthur says, “I have been changing.” 

Eames looks at him consideringly. “So, now you’ve discovered your talent for producing, what are you going to do?”

Arthur smiles. “Well, Mr Eames. I can do whatever I like.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please drop a comment down below to let me know what you think. You can find me at [@toomuchppink](http://www.toomuchppink.tumblr.com) on tumblr! <3


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